


london, 88.

by cassiopeiacarnation



Series: three winter coats (and a dirty knife) [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, Heavy Angst, Suicidal Thoughts, oh these tags are a fucking journey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:09:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25372915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassiopeiacarnation/pseuds/cassiopeiacarnation
Summary: It's him, looking back at her, through the drizzle, the light catching in his eyes. She doesn't remember to breathe until she feels the wind, sharp against her face, slicing her open inch by inch. Maybe that's all this ever was. Bloodletting. Pulling out all the stitches and hoping the wound will fix itself.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Series: three winter coats (and a dirty knife) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1895902
Comments: 3
Kudos: 36





	london, 88.

London, 1988. Room number 120.

He calls her, and she comes.

Even this, she knows-he-knows, is almost too much to be asking. The problem is, the Master is not a stranger to taking, and the Doctor knows nothing except how to give. The rain pouring down from a bleak, star-less London sky as she steps out of the TARDIS is less of an omen, and more of an “I told you so,” from a universe who has never let her keep anything but the things she doesn’t want. It’s a reminder, simple and plain.

It’s an upscale hotel in the heart of the city. What she hates most is the fact that she can _feel_ him on the edge of her consciousness as she steps under the awning. He’s not reaching out, not mocking her. It’s not intentional, it’s just there, trailing her and her muddy footprints into the lobby and up the stairs. The Doctor doesn’t knock when she gets to the door, doesn’t say a word. It’s unlocked, like she knew it would be, and _that's_ the bit that’s meant to mock her.

She assesses the room carefully when she enters, cataloging everything she sees. It’s a tad jarring in that tacky, nineteen-eighties way. It looks marginally unlived in, save for the open balcony doors letting in a chill, and the man just beyond them.

“You’re late.” The Master says, clipped.

“You never set a time,” The Doctor replies. He hums, and she walks towards him like a frightened animal, stepping outside with him. His head is tilted towards the sky, and he is watching the rain fall - maybe still is - when he turns his gaze towards her, very carefully.

“You wouldn’t have listened, anyways.”

He regards her, not unkindly, in her slightly damp coat with the hood up over her head, though she cannot figure out what exactly he’s looking for when he finally meets her eyes.

She blinks at him, observes the way his hands grip the railing, and moves to lean against it with him. They stand shoulder to shoulder for some time. The rain is steadier than them, though much less predictable, and she settles on counting the cars that drive past until he speaks. She tries not to look expectant, but the drumming of her fingers visibly agitates him, regardless, which gives way to a drawn-out sigh.

"I won't apologize," He says, finally. "I can't."

She turns to face him, a million answers to a question that was never asked running through her head. She settles on, "I wasn't asking you to."

He does not respond, so she tears her gaze away from him and onto the busy street below them. It is its own little pocket universe, bright and shiny and unknowing. There are girls dancing with their umbrellas spinning above them, a couple sprinting hand in hand into their apartment building, teenagers laughing. They're just living, she thinks. They're living and breathing, free and wild under streetlights, and for a fleeting moment, she's furious. _Planets are burning_ , she thinks. _Galaxies are crumbling_. _How can you live, how can you inhale, when the buildings are swaying and people are dying and nothing can stop it?_

_How can you live_ , she thinks. And then, _How can I?_

The Doctor shivers. Her coat is soaked through now.

"They _hurt_ you," he says, and the Doctor can't decide if it's better or worse that he's talking now, willingly giving up this information. It's sterilizing a wound. "They hurt you." Again, softer.

"Who hasn't?" She asks. "Who wouldn't?" And he falls silent again, but when she turns to face him, his eyes are already on her, and her breath catches in her throat.

Her fingers curl around the ends of her sleeves. It's _him_ , looking back at her, through the drizzle, the light catching in his eyes. She doesn't remember to breathe until she feels the wind, sharp against her face, slicing her open inch by inch. Maybe that's all this ever was. Bloodletting. Pulling out all the stitches and hoping the wound will fix itself.

A part of her wants to make it all _stop_. To jump the railing and land on concrete, to break her bones and forget how to heal. He makes her want to press her face into the ground and watch blood and water mix, mix, mix, until there's nothing left of her to mourn. There's something so beautiful to her about how sickening the crack of her joints would be, louder than thunder and more electric than lightning. The Master is still just looking at her, but it's with eyes she hasn't seen in centuries. It feels like coming home, and so she releases her grip on the railing and shoves her hands into her pockets.

(She can't bear the thought of him grabbing her by the wrist and begging her not to leave him again, not when he's looking at her like that, _her_ Koschei, brilliant and brighter than anything else, her own personal solar system - )

The Master reaches out, grabs her elbow. "Theta," He says, and it is a prayer, a beginning, or maybe the middle of an unfinished book.

But the Doctor is not a god, and she is certainly not an author. She is old in a way that settles uncomfortably deep in her bones, too old to start something new. So she steps quietly out of his grip, and walks with her heavy, cold feet, back through the balcony doors, and into the room. She makes quick work of her soaking wet coat and her ruined boots. She wants to crawl out of her own body, shed her skin and bed down in the darkest spot she can find for a few thousand years or more. (Or maybe in between his hearts, climb his ribcage like a ladder and just _stay_ -) Instead, she settles for unceremoniously throwing herself down on the mattress and curling into herself. 

  
  


_I am old_ , the Doctor thinks. And then, _But not too old to finish what I have started_.

She doesn’t fall asleep until the mattress shifts beside her.

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to my twisted mind.
> 
> i haven't posted anything worthwhile on ao3 for a couple of years, and haven't written anything for doctor who in half a decade, so you can take of this what you will. if you made it all the way, hey, thanks for reading. and thanks to my jon arbuckle for beta reading, or else i woulda gone fuckin' insane. also, fuck the timeless child plotline, but the master did deserve to burn gallifrey. as a treat.
> 
> for the first time in a long time - comments and kudos are always appreciated.


End file.
